


Trust Me

by The_Birds_And_Bees



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Platonic Relationships, Time Travel, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 21:36:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5264474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Birds_And_Bees/pseuds/The_Birds_And_Bees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you trust me?"</p>
<p>“‘Course, kiddo.”</p>
<p>‘Course not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust Me

* * *

 

**When you’re older**

**you will understand**

 

* * *

“Uncle Sans? Do you trust me?”

“Hm?” The skeleton looks up at them from over the newspaper he’s reading. The tiles are cold under Frisk’s feet, and they scuff them against the floor as they find themselves under scrutiny; a slow, searching look that dims the light behind Sans’ eyes.

“‘Course, kiddo.”

‘Course not.

Frisk nods, gaze falling back to their cereal, which is pushed listlessly around in their bowl. Of course he doesn’t.

This is reset fifty-seven.

“Okay.”

There’s always room for reset fifty-eight.

 

* * *

 

They’ve gotten really good at laughing at the same jokes. It helps that Sans is actually pretty funny, when he tries to be. The conveniently shaped lamp always gets Frisk, and they trot down the pathway with a smile on their face as Sans takes a ‘shortcut’

Maybe one day, he’ll trust them enough to tell them how those work.

Because sometimes, it really does seem like there’s actually two of him at once.

But they forget to laugh when Papyrus electrocutes himself, and the way Sans looks at them when their utter lack of reaction is noticed makes for reset fifty-nine.

 

* * *

 

One day, they’d really like to eat that burger. 

But they never have before, and Sans never takes a bite of his own, so Frisk just folds their hands into their lap and listens politely as Sans talks to them about the echo flower someone must be using to prank Papyrus with. His love for Papyrus is...something. Sometimes Frisk thinks that his brother is the only thing Sans really sees in a good light anymore.

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” Frisk asks. They can’t help themselves. They’ve always wanted to know.

The smile on his face doesn’t even falter.

“Nah. The real question is, why don’t you?”

 

 

Frisk can’t reset fast enough.

 

* * *

 

“How come there’s still snow on the roof?" 

Sans stacks another hotdog onto their head. That’s twelve.

“That snow? Must’ve been too lazy to sweep it off.” He winks at them, and adds another hotdog. That’s thirteen. “Though I wouldn’t say no if you wanted to pay me back for all these ‘dogs.”

That’s short for hotdog. Frisk wrinkles their nose, but keeps still. There’s something really cool about watching all the hotdogs bouncing around the place, even if most of them wind up bouncing right down into the fiery depths below.

“That doesn’t make sense, though. How’d it _get_ there?”

It honestly seems like Sans is considering it, for a moment. Like he didn’t really expect the question; though Frisk has asked all sorts of questions at this very same post. Over and over and over.

“Who knows, kid. Maybe it took a shortcut.”

Frisk peeks over the edge of the station. It’s full of bottles of empty ketchup...and they have to wonder. If they went back to Snowdin, right now, would there be an empty space of land where a sentry post used to be?

Sans gives them another knowing look. And that’s reset sixty-seven.

 

* * *

 

If there’s one thing Frisk never has to pretend, it’s fear. And there’s a lot of things out there that scared them once, but don’t anymore. Flowey. Undyne. Asgore. Asriel. 

But staring down Sans from the other side of the restaurant table, they still feel their breath hitch when he finishes his story. Because Frisk gets it.

If not for Toriel, they’d be dead where they stand. Every single time. Sans isn’t one to make idle threats. As dispersed as they are between idle chatter and a friendly smile, they aren’t something Frisk could ever bring themselves to take lightly, even if the mood lightens.

Especially if it doesn’t.

“Kid…” Sans murmurs. He sighs, eyes sliding over to the stage; away from them.

That’s never happened before.

“Why are you still here?”

That’s reset ninety-five.

 

* * *

 

And they’re so tired. 

“You never gained any love, but you gained _love_ , you get me?” He looks so pleased. So pleased, shrugging everything off and away like nothing he ever says matters. That’s what Sans does. Never take anything seriously.

And they’re _so_ tired.

“Why?” Sans blinks at them, and they stare resolutely back. Hand balled into a fist around their frying pan, tired and _trying so damn hard._ Again and again and again.

Why isn’t that good enough?

“Why don’t you trust me? I didn’t...I didn’t hurt anyone. I didn’t do anything bad, Sans. _I didn’t._ ” Frisk is trying hard to keep tears at bay, but their voice is steady enough. They need to know, _want to know._

This is reset one hundred. They deserve to know.

Sans exhales slowly, and if he had hair, the hand rubbing over the top of his head would make a lot more sense. It drops back down to his side, but for once, he doesn’t immediately stuff it back into his pocket.

He looks tired. Almost as tired as Frisk feels, or maybe more, and they have to wonder if that’s their fault. So many shortcuts and too much time to use them in, even if it’s recycled.

“C’mere.” Bony arms open to them, and without considering, they fly into his arms. Clutch at his ratty jacket with tiny fingers and sniffle into the fabric as Sans awkwardly pats them on the back, like if he had the choice he’d much rather be at an arms length and just talking it out. More effort to comfort than it is to lecture, maybe. “Before I answer that, why don’t you answer one for me, alright?”

“Okay…”

“Do you trust me, kid?” Frisk blinks, staring up at him with wet cheeks, startled out of their tears.

“What?”

“Do you trust me?” Sans repeats patiently, and they frown, opening their mouth to tell him, _of course they do,_ but-

 

 

 

The words get caught in their throat. Frisk swallows, lips pursing as they really, really think about it. Think about whether they really, truly trust Sans or not.

And the resounding answer that comes back to them is no.

“Thought so.” He doesn’t look all that bothered by it. The smile is in place, and the lights behind his eyes don’t so much as flicker as the silence stretches on, answering the question for him. “Trust’s a little overrated, kid. A whole lot of effort, when you really think about it. But if you want my advice on the matter? You should stop trying so hard to get it.”

“But-” That’s not how it’s supposed to work. Frisk’s shoulders slump, looking up at Sans as if he can piece together what’s going on their head without another word. His arms are still around them, though the comforting pats have stopped. They trust him with this, don’t they? To hug them. “I want to.”

“Yeah? Sounds like a real pickle, kiddo.” He closes his eyes, and the world is silent. A stretch of hallway Frisk knows well enough to navigate with their own eyes closed, bathed in twilight. A mere fraction of the mere fraction of sunlight that actually manages to find it’s way down here.

Frisk doesn’t know how many more times they can make themselves walk down it.

“In the end, it’s like I said. You never earned any love.” Frisk feels his arms tighten; squeezing them gently before they’re released, reluctantly going back to supporting their own weight. “But you earned _love._ You get me?”

“...I think so.”

“Then you’ve got somewhere else to be right now, don’t you?” Sans is always smiling, but now and again, he _smiles._ It never fails to pull one out of Frisk, even as they wipe their eyes on their sleeve.

“In a minute.”

He understands.

 

* * *

 

“I am the legendary fartmaster.”

Sans _smiles,_ And Frisk smiles back.

He knows. They didn’t even have to say so for him to know.

The key’s already in their pocket, after all.

 

* * *

 

“Uncle Sans?" 

“Hm?” The skeleton looks up at them from over the newspaper he’s reading. The tiles are cold under Frisk’s feet, and they scuff them against the floor as they find themselves under scrutiny. They smile.

Sans _smiles_ back.

“Nothing.”

  



End file.
